


(interlude) i got that feeling, that bad feeling

by star_sky_earth



Series: sleep [5]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Best Friends Forever, Breathplay, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Incest, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pseudo-Incest, Schoolgirl Kink, Sleepy Sex, The 100 (TV) Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-09-30 23:29:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20455331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/star_sky_earth/pseuds/star_sky_earth
Summary: Clarke doesn’t want to wake up - doesn’t want to think about the mess that she’s made of her friendship with Octavia, the missed call notifications from her mom blinking on her phone, the lies that run through her relationship with Bellamy like a thousand splintering fault lines.She wants to go back. Wants to return to that dreamlike place on the edge of sleep where everything is soft and easy, where her thoughts are empty and she doesn’t have to do anything but feel.





	(interlude) i got that feeling, that bad feeling

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! Please enjoy this mini update to the sleep series while I finish off the next instalment. 
> 
> This little 'interlude' was intended to be part of the next instalment, but I actually think that it works better on its own - so rather than make you wait any longer for an update, I've decided to post this now and then another, much longer instalment in the next couple of weeks. This is a work of pure indulgence on my part, but I hope that you all still enjoy it!
> 
> If you like it, please make sure you subscribe to the series (or me) and not this specific fic which is complete and will not be updated <3

Clarke yawns.  
****

She can’t help it. The classroom is stuffy and uncomfortably warm, late afternoon sun streaming in through the high windows and spilling a lazy yellow light over everything it touches, softening every hard edge and slowing every movement, lending a dreamlike haze to even this, the most mundane of settings. The smell of pencil shavings and industrial floor cleaner, the screech of metal chairs dragging over scuffed linoleum, the tattered and sun-bleached wall displays - all of it experienced as if through thick glass, muted and detached, a littlesurreal. 

It’s the slow hour. That unbearable point around 3pm when time seems to pull and stretch out like taffy, the slow final stretch of the afternoon, the final summit of the day before it tips over into dusk and the tumbling rush towards night. The air is thick, the atmosphere so still and heavy that even the dust seems to hang static, aimlessly drifting in the air, lit up golden by the light as if suspended in time.

At any moment the bell could ring, crowds of rowdy teenagers rushing for the exits in a flood of hormones and noise, fragile peace broken. Temporary confinement giving way to the boundless chaos of a thousand young lives yet to be tempered or defined, high on possibility. But for now there’s only the slow, hesitant tick of the clock on the wall, the reluctant drag of the second hand, unwilling to concede even the smallest increment of passing time. 

Somewhere far away at the front of the room the teacher is talking, something about the New Deal, Roosevelt, welfare programmes. The words gently lap over Clarke like waves, individual words impossible to pick out, his voice ebbing and flowing like water, soothing and hypnotic. All around her is the hushed whisper of pens on paper, the rustle of turning pages and restless bodies, but when she looks down her own notebook is empty, the ruled lines blurring as she fights to keep her eyelids from fluttering closed. 

Clarke yawns again, nose crinkling as her jaw cracks open wide, only just getting her hand up in time to cover her mouth and muffle the noise. The teacher pauses mid-sentence, turning round to glare at her over his glasses, eyes narrowing as Clarke shifts guiltily under his accusing gaze. She sits up a little straighter, drawing herself up where she’d started to slouch down in the chair, grimacing as the delicate skin on the back of her thighs sticks to the wood, clammy in the heat. Her panties are damp, a clinging reminder of last night that brings fresh blood to her cheeks in the warm room, a new tendril of heat starting to curl upwards through her belly. 

She wonders what Bellamy is doing now. He’d been deep in sleep when she left him, worn out once by a long shift at the bar and a second time by her, face burrowed into his pillow, hair a mess of dark curls against the grey cotton. So exhausted that he hadn’t even stirred when Clarke snuck out of their bed at dawn, obliviously sleeping on as she tiptoed around him, silently gathering her pyjamas from where he’d strewn them across the floor only a few hours earlier. 

Every morning it gets a little harder to leave him, waiting until the last possible moment before she drags herself away, forcing herself to swap the comforting bulk of his warm body for the cold pillow next to Octavia. It should have been easier to leave him while he was still asleep, to slip away without his hands reaching for her, without his husky morning voice pleading for her to stay with him _just a bit longer, princess_, but somehow it had been even more difficult. Clarke had lingered for whole minutes just watching him sleep, eyes tracing over the broad lines of his freckled shoulders, the defined muscles of his back, the sensitive spot on the nape of his neck, still pink from her mouth. In the end she’d left only because it was that or wake him up again, and she’d spent the whole day since in a state of thwarted desire, unable to concentrate on anything, frustrated energy thrumming through her body with no hope of relief or reprieve.

Clarke bites her lip, glancing to the right where Octavia sits hunched over her desk, brow furrowing as she works, seemingly absorbed in the lesson. Somehow she’s already filled whole pages with notes in her messy, slanted script, absently drumming the fingers of one hand on the desk as she works, a chaotic little rhythm that stands out in the subdued room. Clarke’s eyes can’t help but be drawn to the movement, each one of her friend’s perfect matte-black nails hitting the wooden desk with a neat tap, filed into sharp Instagram-ready points that couldn’t be further from her own unpainted, gently rounded nails. 

It feels weird to think about fucking Bellamy when she’s with Octavia. It’s not just the betrayal that makes her uneasy, although that’s part of it - the ever present threat of discovery, the worry that O will find out that Clarke’s been lying to her all this time, the illogical fear that her best friend will take one look at her face and know that she’s been sleeping with her brother behind her back. 

It’s just…too close. Too close to that night, too close to the image of Octavia leaning over her brother’s sleeping body. The soft, dark fall of her hair over Bellamy’s skin; the possessive way that she’d touched him, slim hands running over flesh that seemed just as much hers as his, an ownership that ran far deeper and stronger than just shared blood and bone. Too close to the memory of their entwined fingers fumbling over his cock, feeling like nothing that Clarke had ever felt before, clumsy movements owing more to enthusiasm than any kind of skill, chasing each other’s hands in obscene mimicry of the playground games they’d played as children. 

Too close to Octavia’s mouth on hers, those greedy little hands on her own body, just as shamelessly curious and demanding, Clarke putting up just as little resistance as their brother. Just as helpless, even if she’d been awake.

Clarke shivers as she watches Octavia drum her fingers on the desk, transfixed, wondering what it would be like to feel those sharp nails tracing over her delicate skin. 

Out of nowhere the bell rings, Clarke almost jumping out of her skin at the sound, catapulted back into harsh reality, heated daydream shattered. The room instantly descends into anarchy, the end of the lesson lost to the noise of thirty chairs simultaneously pushing back, phones being pulled out of pockets as desks are hastily cleared, heads already turning to seek out long-lost friends across the room, notebooks carelessly crammed into overfull backpacks, ink still wet. The teacher has to shout to make himself heard over the urgent scramble for escape, barking out reading assignments at the retreating backs of Clarke’s classmates, his irritated tone drowned out by raised voices and bright peals of laughter, the ecstatic relief of freedom. 

Just as abruptly as the noise started, it stops. The whole thing couldn’t have taken more than a minute, the room clearing so quickly that the sudden absence of sound is jarring, silence echoing through the emptied classroom. Even the teacher swiftly finds somewhere else to be, muttering under his breath as he messily bundles paperwork under his arm and stalks out into the hallway, the strap of his passenger bag trailing along the floor behind him.

Only Clarke is left, too shocked to move. She raises her hand to her chest, feeling the guilty thud of her heart against her palm.

“What’s up?”

Clarke looks up to see that Octavia hasn’t moved either, notes still spread out across her desk, twirling her pen between her fingers as she stares at Clarke with an expression halfway between concern and confusion. 

“You okay?”

Clarke drops her gaze, shaking her head as she demurs, avoiding Octavia’s curious look. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

She starts to pack up her desk, ignoring how her hands shake when she caps her pen, the trembling in her fingers when she closes her notebook on the empty page. All that matters is getting out of this room, out into fresh air and bright sunlight, putting as much distance as possible between herself and that night, letting the real world chase memory back into the shadows where it belongs. Clarke can’t even look at Octavia right now, not when all her nerve endings are still tingling from the phantom sensation of her touch, body already on the edge from this morning, unable to tell fantasy from reality.

“Right…” Octavia says, unconvinced, not moving. “You sure? You’re looking pretty flushed.”

“It’s nothing,” Clarke insists, useless hands fumbling as she tries to shove everything into her rucksack, the zip sticking when she pulls at it. “Don’t worry about it.”

She yanks at the zip, forcing it open with a frustrated grunt but accidentally knocking her pencilcase onto the floor in the process, pens and pencils spilling everywhere.

“Fuck.”

“Don’t worry,” O says, already pushing back from her desk. “I’ll get them.”

Clarke looks up as Octavia stands, only to instantly regret it.

In theory, Octavia’s wearing a school uniform. In reality, Clarke doesn’t think that what she’s wearing is what anybody had in mind when they were trying to instill educational and moral discipline in the student population. Octavia’s tie is nowehere to be seen, her shirt unbuttoned just far enough to suggest that she isn’t wearing a bra, the fabric just thin enough to confirm it. Guiltily, Clarke wonders if she’s skipped panties as well - a risky move, considering that her pleated skirt is short enough to be illegal in some states, barely covering her slim thighs, acres of unblemished skin exposed above her white knee socks. Around her neck O wears a choker, the thin black ribbon highlighting the vulnerable curve of her neck, her fragile collarbone, the tiny width of a torso easily spanned with one large hand if anyone were brave (or foolish) enough to try.

It couldn’t be more different from Clarke’s own school uniform, which is of course perfect - from the crisp white lines of her neatly buttoned collar down to the regulation length of her skirt, hitting just above her knees, barely a whisper of pale skin between the skirt hem and the top of her socks. 

O kneels down in between their desks, bending over to collect Clarke’s scattered stationery. At this angle, Clarke can see for herself that her friend definitely isn’t wearing a bra, the view down her shirt shifting slightly with every movement, allowing only shadowy glimpses of her slight cleavage, the flash of a nipple, too quick to make out properly but enough to make Clarke’s treacherous mouth water. 

Clarke closes her eyes, resisting the urge to lean forward and get a better view.

And opens them again at the surprise of Octavia’s touch.

Octavia’s palm is cool and dry as she reaches up to gently cup Clarke’s cheek, a welcome contrast to overheated flesh, a soothing caress over blushing skin. Her hand is soft, her touch so light that Clarke could almost kid herself that she’s imagining it, if not for the little gasp that she can’t help but let out in response, a physical reaction like all the breath has been knocked out of her with the barest contact. 

“You _are_ hot,” Octavia says, her voice unusually quiet.

Clarke doesn’t reply, stunned silent. This close up, she can see all of the tiny flecks of colour in Octavia’s dark eyes, glinting and dancing as they catch the light, turning her ebony irises into a shimmering display of colour, a hint of fire smouldering in the black depths. They should be bedroom eyes, sultry and endless, expertly lined and shadowed, but there’s too much of the predator in them to be truly seductive, an edge that makes Clarke just as scared of Octavia’s touch as she is desperate for it. Makes her want to run away, just as much as she wants to stay there under her friend’s hand, still and good and quiet. 

Octavia’s face is serious as she looks up at Clarke, letting go of her cheek only to carefully tuck an errant lock of hair behind her ear, fingertips tracing around the delicate shell, sparking another shiver that runs through Clarke’s whole body. It takes all her willpower not to lean in, not to chase the touch when Octavia pulls her hand away. The corners of her friend’s mouth twitch upwards, the brief flicker of an amused smile.

Octavia may be the one on her knees, but there’s no doubt that she’s the one in control, Clarke powerless to move as her best friend leans up and brushes her mouth over hers.

It’s barely a kiss. Hardly anything, over almost before it begins, no time for Clarke to react or respond, no chance to even close her eyes. Barely even worth acknowledging. Just her entire world turning upside down, everything that she thought she knew about herself shattered, the ground giving way beneath her feet.

“It’s okay,” Octavia whispers. “Trust me.”

Clarke blinks, but Octavia is already moving, already standing up, pulling away. There’s the flip of fabric, the briefest peek of hidden skin, a heartstopping glimpse of white lace under a too-short pleated skirt, and then Octavia’s gracefully swinging herself up onto the desk, perching right on the edge so that she’s just over Clarke’s lap.

She looks calm. Completely at ease, as if what she’s done is completely normal, like she hasn’t just obliterated every line and boundary in their friendship, as if Clarke’s pussy isn’t wet and aching, a yearning heat between her thighs. 

As if Clarke can’t still feel Octavia’s lip gloss on her mouth, sweet and sticky and smelling like strawberries.

Octavia brings her socked feet up to rest on Clarke’s chair, one dainty foot on either side of her thighs. The position parts her legs that she’s almost straddling Clarke, tiny skirt nothing more than an afterthought. Clarke fights to keep her eyes on her friend’s face, not to let her gaze drop down to where the fabric ends, to stop her hands from gliding up silky smooth thighs in search of more white lace.

One of Octavia’s socks has fallen down, exposing a skinny knee. Clarke wants to put her mouth on it. Just to rest, just to feel that awkward, fragile bone under her lips, safe and secret.

It would be so easy to reach up and pull Octavia off the desk and into her lap, get all of that soft, sweet-smelling girl-weight on top of her, their limbs tangled together in one glorious mess. Clarke’s hands tremble with the desire to touch, but she resists. That isn’t the game they’re playing. Those aren’t the rules. 

“See,” Octavia says, her eyes soft. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

She bends over Clarke, trailing the tips of her fingers down the neat length of her school tie, sharp black nails tracing carefully along the smart blue stripes. When she reaches the end she pauses, eyes flicking up to meet Clarke’s, before wrapping the tie around her hand, forming a tight fist around the fabric. Clarke swallows hard, heart pounding in her chest.

They watch together as Octavia steadily, deliberately winds Clarke’s school tie around her hand, the tension in Clarke’s stomach tightening with each slow pass, as if in helpless sympathy. O doesn’t look at Clarke, all her attention focused on the tie, Clarke left to squirm anxiously against her chair, feeling needy and neglected. She’s desperate for stimulation, but the rough friction of her school skirt against her cunt just makes her feel even more lonely, makes her long for real touch, for someone’s guiding hand to calm the ache building inside her. 

Clarke follows obediently when Octavia tugs her forward, using her grip on Clarke’s tie to pull her in close, close enough that she can feel the feather-soft exhale of Octavia’s breath over her skin. She cranes her neck to try and reach Octavia’s mouth with her own, frantic for attention, for a little bit of love, whimpering in frustration when O pulls away, staying just out of reach. She can smell how wet Octavia is, or maybe it’s her, the air between them heady and sweet with salt, combining with the scent of strawberry lip gloss and the floral notes of O’s perfume.

Her eyes flutter closed as Octavia winds the tie around her hand one last time, so tight that her fist comes to a rest against Clarke’s throat, steady pressure against where the breath is just beginning to catch. Clarke whines, shifting restlessly in place, wordlessly begging for a kiss, a touch, anything, everything Octavia is willing to give her. 

“Shh,” Octavia soothes. 

Clarke distantly registers movement, the creak of shifting weight as Octavia takes her foot off the chair, pulling it away from where it had been resting against the outside of Clarke’s thigh. Unprepared, she gasps when it returns, this time between her legs, the delicate press of Octavia’s socked foot against her cunt, blessed friction against her clit through her soaked panties. Octavia’s eyes blaze when Clarke doesn’t pull away, a heat to match the humiliated blush rising in Clarke’s cheeks as she helplessly moans at the touch, barely managing to stop herself from grinding forward against the solid pressure. 

“Good girl.”

O lets go of the tie, letting Clarke take one frantic breath before she’s leaning down, finally bringing their mouths together -

\- and the room starts to tip, Octavia fading away as Clarke’s vision blurs, her head spinning as -

\- the mattress shifts underneath her, dipping under the heavy weight of a body getting into bed next to her.

The bedroom is pitch black when Clarke blearily opens her eyes, still caught somewhere between sleep and waking, confused and disorientated as she stares up, unseeing, into the darkness. Dream gives way to reality gradually, Clarke’s body slowly losing the weightlessness of sleep as she registers the rough cotton of a pillowcase under her cheek, the jab of an errant mattress spring poking into her hip. She’s boiling hot, tangled up in the sheets, the oversized t-shirt she wore to bed twisted around her body so that the loose garment is drawn tight around her torso, digging uncomfortably under her arms and pulling against her neck. 

No sooner does she realise her discomfort then the covers suddenly lift, cold night air rushing in and playing over her overheated and sensitive skin, making her shiver. She tenses, a split second of panic as a large body curls around hers, a heavy arm winding around her waist, but then a familiar voice whispers into her ear, a husky tone that makes her tremble for an entirely different reason. 

“Hey, princess.”

Clarke’s body works faster than her sleep-soft mind, relaxing back into Bellamy before she even has a chance to consciously process his words, back arching on instinct when he presses a delicate kiss to her throat. He must have taken a shower after he got home from work - his skin is damp and cool, his mouth toothpaste-fresh against her own warm skin. She sighs as he begins to trail a slow line of kisses along her neck, easily giving in to the desire that floods through her, gently overlapping waves of arousal pulling her into darker depths. Her mind drifts back towards sleep, carried away by the simple, undemanding pleasure of Bellamy’s hands wandering over her skin, his skilled mouth working over already shaking nerves, setting off little ripples of shivering feeling with every kiss and bite.

There’s a dull throbbing between her legs, the faraway ache of her lonely cunt clenching down around nothing, but it’s more the tender anticipation of what’s to come than any sense of urgent desire, the sharp bite of desperation softened by the ease of surrender, the bliss of letting go. Here, lost in the deep velvet darkness of night, floating somewhere on the line between awake and dreaming, her body left soft and trusting in Bellamy’s arms, everything is slow and easy, the concept of time meaningless, nothing touching Clarke but pleasure. She can be patient. 

Only the dream disturbs her peace. 

Not even a dream. The memory of a dream, nothing more than a half-caught whisper, a shadow lingering in the back of her mind, details already blurry and indistinct. The nagging sense of something important that she’d left behind on the journey from sleep to waking, like words lost in the space between mind and mouth, fragile thoughts blowing away like dandelion seeds, leaving behind only the phantom sensation of words left unspoken. It slips through her fingers when she tries to reach out for it, nothing more than smoke, seeping through clasped fingers. It doesn’t matter. Clarke lets it go. Lets the dream fall away, melting into black oblivion, forgotten, even the knowledge of the loss fading until all that remains is the scent of strawberries, incongruous and sweet.

Bellamy lifts his mouth away from her throat and nips at her ear lobe, chuckling when she squeaks in sleepy protest. 

“This is a nice surprise.” He presses a kiss to her tangled hair as he rocks his body against hers, letting her feel the heavy weight of his cock against her back, already hard. “You been waiting for me?”

Bellamy’s hand leaves Clarke’s waist, leisurely trailing down over the curve of her stomach under her t-shirt, sinking down between her legs where she’s already a dripping mess, soft thighs sticking together as she parts them for his touch. She’s wearing panties, an attempt at modesty turned obscene by the shameful state of the thin fabric, white cotton soaked translucent and sopping, sliding over the slippery-wet folds of her cunt when Bellamy rubs at her.

Clarke turns her face into the pillow beneath her, overwhelmed by the feeling, embarrassed for some reason that she can’t name, a feeling of unease playing around the ragged edges of her desire. 

Bellamy groans as he feels how wet she is, a ravenous noise that gets her pulse pounding in her cunt, a whine escaping from her throat in response, only half muffled by the pillow. 

“Fuck, Clarke,” Bellamy grits out, voice breaking, sounding just as wrecked as she feels. His thick fingers trace lightly over her pussy through her panties, thumb tapping on her clit until she shudders, dangerously close to orgasm already, just as wound up as if she’d been edged for hours. “You’re fucking dripping. Such a perfect pussy, huh baby? My sweet girl.”

Clarke gasps as he grinds the heel of his palm against her clit, the feeling so intensely good that it’s almost painful, shocking pleasure that sharply cuts through the remaining haze of sleep.

“Come here, princess.”

Bellamy curls his fingers, easily cupping her entire cunt with his large hand, gently dragging her back along the mattress so that she’s pulled flush against the hard line of his body. He sets his teeth to the curve of her neck, keeping her in place as he glides his other hand up under her shirt, tweaking a nipple at the same time as he thrusts his hips against her ass and presses down on her clit with his thumb, her whole body jolting as the overwhelming sensations rush through her. 

It’s too much. The climb to pleasure too sleep, her awakening too abrupt, like a diver ascending too quickly from the depths, left gasping under an endless empty sky. Clarke’s mind is spinning, her thoughts already spiralling off into a thousand opposing directions, peaceful oblivion crushed by the weight of reality. She doesn’t want to wake up - doesn’t want to think about the mess that she’s made of her friendship with Octavia, the missed call notifications from her mom blinking on her phone, the lies that run through her relationship with Bellamy like a thousand splintering fault lines. She wants to go back. Wants to return to that dreamlike place on the edge of sleep where everything is soft and easy, where her thoughts are empty and she doesn’t have to do anything but feel. 

Bellamy lets out a quiet huff of surprise when Clarke twists in his grip and throws her arms around him, hiding her face in the safe space between his neck and his shoulder. She presses herself full-length against him as his arms automatically come up to enfold her, cradling her body against his. Bellamy’s hair is still wet from the shower, little drops of water running down his neck and onto her forearms, and he smells comfortingly exactly like himself, pine soap and warm skin, every trace of the outside world washed clean. 

“Hey,” Bellamy whispers into her hair, rubbing her back with his palm. “You want me to let you sleep?”

Clarke shakes her head, burrowing even closer into him, tightening her arms around his neck. 

“Okay.” Bellamy’s chest rumbles with something like suppressed laughter, words drawn out as he carefully considers each word. “You want me to take charge for a little bit?”

She doesn’t respond with words, choosing instead to kiss her answer into his skin, opening her mouth so that she can dart her tongue across his throat, tasting the steady beat of his pulse. Bellamy moans, dropping his forehead to her shoulder as he reaches down to grab onto her ass, hands sneaking under the flimsy barrier of her panties to take a buttock in each rough palm, the fingers of one hand just brushing against her asshole, quickly enough for her to almost pretend that it’s an accident.

Bellamy hauls her up so that the hard length of his cock is right against her throbbing clit, tip smearing pre-come across her tummy, skin left damp and sticky. Her mouth goes lax against his throat, swallowing down a whimper as he slowly rolls his hips into her, hands squeezing and separating her buttocks, fingertips fluttering thrillingly into the space between. 

It’s only the past couple of weeks that they’ve started experimenting with…the other kind of sex. Clarke would have been lying if she’d said that she hadn’t thought about it before, every other inch of her body so thoroughly explored and loved by Bellamy that it seemed an obvious next step, just a matter of time before they got round to…that. But it had still been a shock the first time that he’d deliberately touched her there, the first time that he’d lightly traced over her asshole with his thumb, her body already sweaty and worn out under him, still recovering from his tireless, tiring mouth. Just a light touch, no pressure or obvious intent behind it, almost casual if not for the expert way that he’d circled her swollen clit with his tongue at the exact same moment, the intensity of his gaze when she’d looked down in surprise, their eyes meeting across the plane of her quivering stomach. 

They haven’t gone any further than fingering so far, Clarke tugging frantically on Bellamy’s hair whenever his mouth starts to trail too far south, blushing furiously. She’s still not used to the strange, squirming pleasure of it, so different from all the other things that they’ve done in bed, an entirely new feeling for which she has no reference point. The intense vulnerability that sweeps through her whenever he touches her there, exhilarating and a little draining at the same time, nothing that she could ever imagine doing with anyone else. If there’d ever been any sense that Bellamy was taking it easy on her, it was gone now, one long afternoon on the couch having dispelled any illusions about going slow. 

She can’t tell if she’s relieved or disappointed when Bellamy doesn’t take it any further this time, letting go of her ass and rolling them both across the mattress. Clarke ends up sprawled on her back across the pillows, Bellamy taking his weight up onto his elbows above her, their legs entwined. She pouts, vaguely betrayed at the loss of her hiding place, and he leans down to playfully rub their noses together, dotting little kisses over her reluctantly upturned face.

“Sorry baby,” he apologises. Clarke can’t see his face clearly in the dark, but she can tell from the shape of his words that he’s smiling. “Just needed a kiss from my girl, that’s all.”

Bellamy kisses her sweet and deep, so tender that Clarke has no choice but to forgive him, her helpless heart fluttering as he frames her face in his big hands, calloused thumbs brushing over her cheekbones. He tastes like toothpaste, Clarke softening as she imagines him in the bathroom, dead on his feet from his shift but still thinking of her, using up precious minutes to shower off the bar before coming to their bed. She pulls her legs up against his sides, snugly cradling his body in the curve of her hips, weaving her hands into his damp hair. For once she doesn’t tug or pull, doesn’t try to hurry him along or spur him on, none of the desperation that normally drives her, the underlying fear that this time could be the last time. She just wants to feel him, to hold him close, to offer him even the smallest part of the endless comfort that he provides to her.

Bellamy makes a soft noise into the kiss as Clarke settles her hands in his hair, scratching her fingers over his scalp, petting him.

It feels so right when it’s like this. Just the two of them, hidden away from everyone and everything else, all the reasons why they shouldn’t do this falling away, bodies pressed together too tightly to leave any room for doubt. 

Bellamy pulls away, pressing a final kiss to her forehead. “Stay here.”

Clarke leans back into the pillows as Bellamy makes his way down her body, pushing her t-shirt up over the swell of her breasts, her nipples tightening as they’re exposed to the cold night. He cups her breasts, thumbs running along the curve, then bends down to lick over her left nipple with the broad flat of his warm tongue, blowing cool air over the wet skin until she shudders, then taking it into his mouth, sucking gently. She sighs, her hands finding their way back to his head, holding him to her, eyes falling closed when he teases her neglected right nipple with his fingers, rubbing around it in tight circles until it hardens and aches. After a little while he swaps sides, soothing the hard nub with his tongue, tweaking her wet left nipple between thumb and forefinger as she moans, her hands shaking in his hair, hips bucking against him. 

He goes back and forth like that for a while, switching his mouth from one breast to another until Clarke’s panting, writhing and wrecked under him. The pleasure builds gradually, Bellamy taking his time, working her up a little more each time before he moves again, bringing her back down and starting over from the beginning, never letting her get used to any one feeling. She’s kept floating, gently suspended between the contrasting sensations, the alternating hot and cold, the rough swipe of his tongue on her breasts swiftly followed by the soft warmth of his mouth and then the sharp tug of his fingers.

Clarke can’t tell how long it goes on for, no idea how much time passes before Bellamy finally moves downwards to settle on his belly between her legs, making a space for himself between her shaking thighs. She only knows that her mind is blissfully empty, sweat starting to bead along her hairline and at the small of her back, her muscles like jello when he drapes her legs over his broad shoulders. The position tilts her hips up to his mouth, her body laid open before him, and Bellamy lets out a deep growl of satisfaction as he licks deep into where she’s dripping wet, the noise vibrating through her cunt.

He’s in no rush to get her off, leisurely exploring her with his mouth, delicately flicking her clit with his tongue, pulling her hips higher off the mattress so that he can get even deeper into her, spreading her open with his thumbs. Clarke has always heard that guys didn’t like going down on girls, that they thought it was gross and boring, but Bellamy eats her out with an enthusiasm that suggests otherwise, makes her think that maybe he enjoys it as much as she does, that he fantasises about his mouth on her cunt the same way that other men fantasise about getting their dick sucked. She lets herself relax into it, sinking into a place of pure sensation, her mind free to wander.

It’s a strange feeling, to lie there in the dark, feeling Bellamy’s touch but not being able to see him, to be so intimate with someone and yet so removed from them, her pleasure so entirely her own despite being given by another. She’s naked, exposed to the night and at the same time hidden by it, simultaneously held down and set free, completely alone and entirely loved, floating alone in the silent darkness with nothing to keep her grounded but the slick sounds of sex and the pull of the rough sheets against her skin. A secret thrill runs down her spine at the thought that right now, she could be anywhere. Be anyone. Be _with_ anyone. 

Mind drifting, Clarke doesn’t even notice when her eyes fall closed, black night indistinguishable from the darkness behind her eyelids, the boundary between waking and sleep worn thin, easily crossed in the space between one breath and the next. Reality and dream twist and tangle together like vines, budding dark red blossoms that bloom like velvet against her pale skin, scenting the air with a heavy perfume that slows her mind and sets her body on fire, nerve endings aflame at the slightest touch, both real and imagined.

She arches up, sighing as rough hands caress over her sensitive skin, large palms smoothing up the line of her trembling thighs in a practiced, tenderly possessive move. Bellamy’s touch is confident and assured, almost more familiar to her now than her own touch, her body’s response easy and unthinking, completely unguarded. His mouth teases at her clit, sucking delicately until Clarke whines, one broad hand resting heavily on the soft flat of her stomach, effortlessly keeping her in place for his mouth even as her hips try to rise towards him, her head tipping back on the pillow, mouth opening on a silent moan. 

Suddenly, something shifts. Bellamy’s touch changes, eases into something lighter and unexpected, more playful than he’s ever been before. His hand lifts away from Clarke’s stomach, the reassuring weight replaced by the dancing movements of curious fingers across her delicate skin, tracing along the curve of her navel, dipping into her belly button, exploring her body as if for the first time, a thousand previous touches forgotten or erased. The comforting steady pressure of blunt fingertips gives way to the rake of sharp nails over her vulnerable skin, goosebumps rising in their wake, a shivering trail of uneasy pleasure that demands rather than coaxes, just this side of painful. Slender hands skim upwards over Clarke’s belly to curl around the jut of her hip bones, holding her down with surprising strength as she gasps and writhes, struggling to process what’s happening. 

Clarke cries out as Bellamy’s mouth on her pussy switches from gentle to desperate, all traces of his earlier languor gone, something new and frantic in his movements as he buries his tongue in her cunt, eagerly chasing the taste of her. Overwhelming pleasure crashes through her, no room given for relief or breath as he mercilessly explores every hidden and delicate fold with a wicked tongue, nipping at her swollen flesh with soft lips, the hard line of his nose bumping against already overstimulated nerves. She shudders, heaving for breath, but he doesn’t let up for a second, unrelenting, moving upwards to circle her clit with the hard point of his tongue until her whole body jolts with the feeling, like an electric shock. 

This isn’t Bellamy. He’s never touched her like this before, has never treated her with anything approaching this level of carelessness, this reckless disregard of her limits, her body nothing more than a toy to be played with, a way to indulge every whim and selfish desire. Even at his most desperate, driven to the very edge of his control, there’s a reverence in Bellamy’s touch that elevates even the roughest caress into something tender and loving, careful attention paid to her slightest response, a secret language passing between their bodies that goes deeper than mere words. Wild eyed, half-mad with desire, lost both to himself and to reason, Bellamy has never touched her with anything less than worship on his lips. 

Only one person has ever touched Clarke like this. Only one person has ever run their hands over her body with such casual possessiveness, such childish entitlement, handling all her soft and sacred parts with this kind of detached and curious pleasure, as if Clarke’s body were nothing more than an extension of her own, a new and fascinating playground to discover and explore. 

Only one person has ever made her feel this kind of anxious, uneasy pleasure. This unsettling lust, yawning open in the pit of her belly, a vast and endless emptiness that stretches out before her, a pair of jaws opening wide, threatening to swallow her whole. 

Clarke reaches down between her legs with shaking hands, something in her stomach twisting and tumbling over itself as she sinks her fingers deep into soft, straight hair instead of short, messy curls.The velvet rasp of a five-o’clock shadow between her legs fades into the tickling sensation of long hair falling over her skin, her legs resting along the sinuous line of a slender back instead of over broad, freckled shoulders.

_Octavia._

Clarke opens her mouth to cry out - in protest, in confusion - but nothing comes out but a strangled moan, words catching in her throat as two slender fingers thrust into her, pressing up into her G-spot with terrifying precision. A shameful heat slams through her as her cunt clenches down tight around Octavia’s fingers, her hands twining through her friend’s hair to pull her even closer, all thoughts of resistance lost in the roar of desire. 

A bright spark of pain cuts through the pleasure, sharp little teeth nipping at the delicate flesh of her inner thigh,  Octavia’s mouth curving into a mischievous smile against her skin as Clarke yelps. Only for a moment, and then her mouth is back on her cunt, licking around where Clarke is already opened wide around her fingers, Clarke keening at the extra stretch as Octavia scissors her fingers open, tongue flicking inside for a brief taste, hummingbird quick and dainty. 

Octavia takes it slower now, if not exactly easier, every movement smooth and intentional, playing Clarke’s body with a level of skill that almost feels like showing off, her earlier clumsiness obviously a deliberate choice rather than simple inexperience, her own private little joke. Every stroke of her tongue, every thrust of her fingers is perfectly timed to drive Clarke closer to orgasm, Octavia instinctively knowing exactly how to make her gasp and moan and shake, all of Clarke’s defences crumbling helplessly in the face of the feelings that Octavia is forcing from her, prisoner to her own body’s reactions.

_Is this how Bellamy would have felt, if he’d been awake?_

Eventually Octavia takes pity on her, although it feels less like kindness and more like a new form of torture when she pulls her fingers out of Clarke and lifts her mouth away from her clit, all stimulation abruptly withdrawn except from the faintest whispering sensation of her breath on Clarke’s cunt. Clarke whines in frustration, too close to coming to care about how she must sound, the pathetic noises that she’s making as she bucks her hips upwards into empty air, tightening her hands in Octavia’s hair, trying to drag her back down to her clit. Octavia ignores her pleas, resisting her frantic attempts with a humiliating lack of effort, and Clarke freezes when she hears a new noise in the darkness, the quiet but unmistakable _pop_ of fingers being pulled out of a dripping mouth. 

She groans, a deep and gutteral noise as Octavia’s mouth descends back onto her clit, knowing exactly what’s about to happen but somehow still unprepared when she feels the light pressure of a wet fingertip circling over her asshole. Gentle at first, but circling with ever increasing and insistent pressure, patiently working her open even as Clarke bites her lip, screwing her eyes shut against the sensation, the uncomfortable yet undeniable pleasure of it, the heat in her stomach matched only by the blood flaming in her cheeks.

Clarke can’t tell anymore. Can’t tell dream from waking, fantasy from reality, can’t even separate pleasure from humiliation or any one of the hundred other feelings running through her body, the mess of thoughts in her mind. She cries out, back arching as Octavia finally thrusts a finger into her ass, but something’s different now, the world shifting once more around her, and she doesn’t know, can’t work out what’s happening to her, what she’s feeling, whether it’s one thick finger inside her or two slender ones. Her hands clutch tight in hair that’s wild curls one moment, glossy and straight the next; the hand on her hip now at both once heavy and delicate; her thighs clenched around a body that seems to change shape with every one of her desperate breaths.

A mouth wraps around her clit, another finger pushing into her cunt, working in perfect tandem with the one in her ass, and Clarke can’t tell whose hands are on her body in the darkness, doesn’t even know if it’s one person or two taking her apart. 

It’s that thought, flashing through her mind like lightning, the thought of being at the mercy of not just one but both siblings, Bellamy and Octavia working her over together, twin sets of dark eyes meeting over her vulnerable body, that finally tips her over the edge, her body exploding into an orgasm so strong that it’s almost painful, eyes opening wide as she wakes up once more.

Clarke reaches out blindly into the night, not knowing what she’ll find, almost sobbing with relief when it’s Bellamy who crawls up from between her legs and into her arms.

Bellamy enters her with shameful ease, both of them moaning as he settles in deep, her cunt fantasy wet and dream soaked, still shivering with aftershocks around his cock. Clarke can’t stop herself from clinging to him, frantic hands caressing over every inch of skin she can reach, dragging his body down onto hers so that he’s half-crushing her into the mattress. She buries her flushed face into his neck, breathing him in, arms wrapped so tight around him that he can’t thrust like he normally would, can only rock gently into her, barely moving, his own breath hot and damp on her skin where they’re so tightly pressed together. 

Clarke’s heart is pounding in her chest, but it’s only partly due to her orgasm. She closes her eyes, willing away the memory of Octavia’s touch, concentrating on the feeling of Bellamy inside her, soaking up the reassuring warmth and weight of his body, the knowledge that it’s really him there with her, that it was him all along. She should have known, even in sleep, that he would never leave her, the truth that she feels deep in her bones.

But then again, that wasn’t the problem, was it? Clarke’s the one who left, treacherous mind wandering away in sleep, slipping away into disturbing fantasies and strange, uncontrollable desires. She’s the one who can’t be trusted, the one who carries this awful secret buried deep inside her, a barely contained darkness that’s slowly seeping into every part of her life like thick black oil, polluting everything it touches. She’s the one who hurt him - _hurts_ him, every day that she lets him love her, every day that she refuses to give him up or let him go. 

It’s not long before he comes with a muffled moan, hips jerking, body sagging down against Clarke’s, already exhausted and half asleep. Blearily he nuzzles into her, seeking out her mouth for one final kiss, eyes closed and mouth fumbling on hers. 

Bellamy tries to pull away, but Clarke refuses to let go, shaking her head where it’s still nestled against his shoulder, legs tightening around him. Too tired to fight, he rolls them across the mattress once more, this time onto their sides, Clarke held safely against his chest, one leg hooked high over his hip. He’s asleep in seconds, snoring into the pillow just above her head, softening cock still inside her. 

It takes far longer for Clarke to fall back asleep, too scared of what - or who - she’ll find there.

**Author's Note:**

> Those of you following me on tumblr will know that I've been struggling with writer's block this summer, hence the accidental hiatus. A big thank you to everyone that's gotten in touch over the last few months to let me know that they liked the series and provide me with some much needed encouragement when I was ready to quit writing forever. Every ask and comment is appreciated!
> 
> Also, a massive thanks to everyone that nominated and voted for this series in the BFWA After Dark Awards! In case you didn't see, the series won the award for Best DubCon Work In Progress which was a lovely surprise.
> 
> You can expect the next full part of the sleep series ('love is like a sin, my love') in the next couple of weeks and then we'll be back to a regular-ish update schedule. 
> 
> Come shout at me on tumblr: https://star-sky-earth.tumblr.com/


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